We're In A Mess
by KenjiKat
Summary: Why do I always push him away...?  Arthur X Eames  Will change content rating to M in later chapters


**Chapter 1**

Arthur sat in the large, black leather armchair, glaring intently at his gleaming, immaculate dress shoes, his legs crossed and arms folded along his chest. Anger and irritation was etched into the young man's pale face, but its source was hardly his shoes. This occurrence was becoming much too common, and the point man had finally lost all remaining patience. This wasn't going to happen again; he'd see to that.

The door opened and Arthur looked up, shifting his scowl from his shoes to the person standing in the doorway.

"Wait, Darling, before you get upset-" Eames started to say, seeing the fury on his lover's face.

The point man stood, and nearly charged toward the older man, not a word passing his lips. He stopped just in front of him and reached out, plunging his hand into the right side pocket on his tweed pants, and ripping out his cellphone. He busied with the device, refusing to speak or so much as meet the forger's gaze until he finished.

"Hmm…" Arthur murmured, checking through the entirety of the phone. He had managed to keep his anger out of his voice, but his brow still furrowed, and the chagrin in his eyes seemed to increase with every button he pressed. "…Everything seems to be in working order."

Eames sighed and ran a hand down his hair. "Arthur, I-"

The younger man threw the phone at the brunette and it bounced off of his chest before he caught it, looking up at Arthur in disbelief.

Arthur finally met his eye then, folding his arms across his chest again.

"And you seem fine," he said, his irritation beginning to break through.

"Arthur, you're not letting me-"

"So, if there is nothing wrong with you and there is nothing wrong with your phone…" the point man began, his emotions unbridled and fully manifested in his voice now. "Then there is no reason why I sat waiting for you in that restaurant for three hours, wondering where the hell you were."

With that, Arthur turned and started off toward their bedroom, making it all the more clear that he had no interest in any excuse or explanation that his older lover had to give. As he turned to go, however, Eames reached out and gently took his wrist, meaning to keep him in place.

"Darling, stop it, please listen to me," he said, nearly pleading now.

"Don't touch me, Eames," the younger man replied softly, pulling his arm out of the forger's grasp and continuing toward the bedroom, but his lover refused to let it go. He followed quickly, and took Arthur's arm again, a bit more firmness to his grasp now.

"Arthur, will you stop and talk to me about this?" he asked, annoyance in his tone now.

The point man wheeled around and scowled at the older man, ripping his arm out of Eames' hand, the violence to the gesture a statement all on its own.

"Don't fucking touch me, Eames," he repeated gravely, holding the other man's gaze until he was sure that he understood this time. He then turned on his heel and walked the rest of the way, his lover following, still determined to repair the situation.

Eames shook his head and sighed again, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"…I'm sorry, Arthur, alright?" he said shrugging, the casualness to the gesture belying the sincerity in his apology. "I'm sorry."

Arthur had moved to the bed and now sat in the middle of it, a book propped open in his lap.

"Of course you are, Eames," he said, his gaze on his book, and his tone now wholly nonchalant. "As I recall, you were sorry last time, too, and the time before that, and the time before that. I don't want your apologies, William."

"Well, then what do you want?" the older man asked exasperatedly. "How do we fix this?"

"I want you to act as though the plans we make have some importance to you," the point man replied, looking up at Eames and frowning. "I want you to swear to me that the next time we make plans and every time after that, that you will actually show up, on time, and stop making me look like an idiot because I keep believing 'next time' will be different."

The older man stood in silence for a moment or so, and then nodded. "Alright," he conceded, walking closer to the bed and stopping near Arthur's nightstand. "Alright, fine. I can do that."

"You swear?" his younger lover asked, raising both midnight brows.

"I swear," Eames repeated, nodding, sitting on the edge of their bed. He lifted a hand to Arthur's cheek and stroked it, studying his face as he did so. "…Are you still upset with me, Darling?"

"No," the point man replied, and while a part of him wanted to accept the gesture of affection, he moved away from the forger and his hand, a greater part of him not quite ready to forgive. "But we are still not on _those_ terms yet, Eames."

The older man stared at Arthur and lowered his hand slowly, then stood from the bed and sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets again.

"Well…" he said, looking to the carpet, then to the doorway, rubbing his stubbled cheek. "If you're in no mood to talk, then there's no reason for me to stay."

He turned and walked to the front door, Arthur watching him emotionlessly as he left. The younger man did and said nothing until he heard the door close, even going so far as to sit in place until he was sure that Eames had left.

"…Dammit," he whispered softly to himself, closing his book and throwing it carelessly to his nightstand. He sighed and turned onto his side, curling up into the fetal position.

_Why do I always have to do that?_ He thought to himself. _What the hell is wrong with me?_

He sighed again and shifted to run a hand through his hair, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of a small, glass bottle inches from where his book had landed. He sat up a little and started when he saw the name etched into the bottom of the glass: "Eau de Gentiane Blanche."

He had been searching for this very cologne for months. How did it find its way to his nightstand?

"…Eames…" Arthur said slowly, quickly putting two and two together. That would explain what he'd been trying to tell him and as to how it ended up beside him, well, Arthur had seen Eames' gift of sleight of hand many times. It wouldn't have been too hard for the older man to place the bottle there without him noticing.

This realization, however, would not bring his lover back for him to apologize and his stubborn behavior had done its damage.

The point man rolled over onto his back again and sighed at the ceiling, dragging his hand through his hair again.

"…Dammit…"


End file.
